The Man That Was Erik
by L. E. Nigel Garrison
Summary: Erik was born with the gift of music, then one day a fire destroyed everything he had
1. The Letter In The Fireplace

Lily looked at all the boxes and sighed. She didn't really want to move all these herself, but there was no one else to do it, so she decided she might as well start. She went through five boxes in an hour and then felt hungry. She looked through her little kitchen and decided to go with Mac and cheese, for the third night in a row.

After dinner, she went back to the boxes, and in two hours she was down to six boxes. Ripping the tape off a fresh box, she revealed an old clock her mother had given her shortly before she died. A tear went down Lily's cheek as she read the inscription from her father to her mother, "My dear wife, let's hope the sands of time never outlasts my love for you."

She looked around the apartment for a place to put it. She searched all four rooms and finally found the perfect place, in the living room, on the mantle. She set it down, and then put up two pictures of her parents and her, and it was perfect. The mantle was above what used to be a fireplace, when it was legal to have fireplaces and actually burn wood, but those days were long gone, and the previous tenants had boarded it up.

It was a little unsightly, and she also noticed a large crack that ran through the top of the wood. She bent down to get a better look. The crack had dust from numerous years ago, and was nothing new. But Lily decided she should tear the wood down and put up a new piece. But that would have to wait; she still had boxes to unpack.

It was close to ten when Lily got all of the boxes unpacked. She sighed relief and threw herself onto her bed, which was really just a mattress with a tablecloth on it. She tried to go to sleep, but she seemed restless. All she could think about was the board covering the fireplace with the big crack on it. It just wouldn't get out of her mind. She finally made up her mind.

She got a crowbar and went into the living room. She imagined how silly she must have looked, pajamas, slippers, and a crowbar ready to whack down any board that stood in her way. She didn't care about her appearances, though; she just hoped none of the other tenants complained about the noise.

She lifted the crowbar up above her head and threw all her weight into it. She came crashing down with the crowbar and through the piece of wood, and ending up on the floor looking up one very dusty chimney. She sat there dazed for a second, but then the coughing fits started.

She hacked away for five minutes trying to find a glass (she had yet to move her eating and drinking utensils from her old place) and finally found a plastic cup. She gulped down a few glasses until the coughing went away.

She looked at herself in the mirror (she didn't really understand why there was a mirror in the kitchen, but there was) and saw that her whole upper half was covered in soot. She washed off best she could (alas, the plumbing for the shower was broken, and no plumber had been called.) and realized that she might have broken the clock.

"OH MY GOD! THE CLOCK!" She did not scream out loud, nor realizing that they're nobody around to hear her scream. She ran into the next room and to her relief she saw that the clock was not broken, but was shifted around. She walked up to it and put it back in its place. That's when she noticed it.

It was a tiny little speck of color in the black soot, but enough to catch her eye. She wondered what she could have let fall, and picked it up. The paper was so brittle it felt like if she breathed on it, it would break. It was an envelope, an extremely old one by the looks of it. The paper was almost completely yellow, except where it had soot on it.

She turned the envelope around and saw a note written on it:

A Story

To whichever occupant of my house that has come after me

Lily read it with astonishment. She wondered who would leave such a note, obviously someone with a lot of time on his or her hands. She looked around for a name and found this on the first sheet of paper inside the envelope:

Let us begin with introductions. You're probably wondering who would leave a story for someone to find later. I know that is what I would be wondering if I found a note in my home. But wait before you toss it out as garbage, my story is a most interesting one.

I have traveled the world many times over, and my stories are plentiful. That is the foremost reason for this letter; it is more of memoirs than anything wrong. But I think that at the end of reading this, you might view it as an apology, and probably a much overdue one. But, as I said at the beginning, let us have introductions.

My name is Erik, and I am The Opera Ghost.


	2. Erik's Fame

Chapter 2

Erik's Fame

"The Opera Ghost?" Lily said out loud, still unaware that no one was around. She saw that the stack of paper from the envelope was almost half an inch thick, and she fought with herself on whether to read it tonight or save it for morning. She knew this had to be something good, so she sat down at the dining room table and turned on the little light in the middle of it. It read:

I realize that this must seem like an odd way to communicate, and let me apologize at once for that. As I have said, I am the Opera Ghost. No doubt that you have heard of me before, I seemed to have made quite the uproar at a certain opera house in Paris in the late 1800's. Now you might wonder why in the world I ended up in New York, but the beginning is the best place to start (as I have repeatedly said) so let's begin.

My life started in the 1850's, in a small little town in Persia. I have looked on recent maps and found that it no longer is there, and was probably lost to another city. There was the start of my bad beginnings.

From the age of birth to 9, I had quite a normal life. I started school at the age of 7, and showed amazing abilities in math, music, and foreign languages, the foremost being French and German. My instrument forte was the violin, but then I discovered the piano. I begged my mother and father to get my one for months, until they finally yielded. For the first four days of owning the piano I did not eat, nor sleep. It was to be the first of many times that I would be nourished by music alone.

I composed thirty-one songs in those four days, and fourteen of them for a musical I decided to write. After my stint with the piano, I moved on to the violin. I worked at all the music for my lessons that I had neglected over the past four days. Spurred by my newfound talent to write music, I tried my hand at writing for the violin. For that I was able to compose fifty-nine songs. In all fairness, the songs for the piano were at shortest three minutes long. The songs for my violin were all short, minute long Gavottes.

My mother and father were astonished at my ability. They had never heard of such talent at such a young age. For the next week I gave concerts at the market, and collected a great amount of donations, of which my father took half, and left the rest for me, which I thought was fair. One day at the market I attracted a larger crowd then usual. It just so happened that in the crowd was a servant of the prince that ruled over our village and surrounding areas, and was astonished to hear a child not yet aged ten who played as well as any virtuoso.

He apparently rushed to the prince and told him of this spectacle. The prince was incredulous and demanded to go to hear me play. The next day he arrived at my house and asked me if I would give him a private concert in four days time. I naturally accepted, and he was overjoyed.

After he left, I started writing a violin sonata for him, to be premiered at his special concert. I worked on that piece for two days straight, and it turned out to be sixteen minutes in length, and required all my skill of my young fingers.

At the end of this period of two weeks, I was exhausted, and decided to rest before the concert, so that's what I did. The day before the concert was spent sleeping, for I had gotten almost none over the past weeks. I would occasionally eat, and then sleep for periods of two hours.

When I awoke on time, I found nobody in the house. I deduced that my mother must have needed something for her sewing, and looked for something to eat. That was when my life was changed forever more.


	3. Lily's Dream

Lily woke up with a start. She had slept on the dining room table for some reason, on she could not (or would not) remember. She remembered the dream she'd been having, something about a letter. She smiled and decided to get dressed.

As she was walking to her bedroom, the phone started to ring. She looked around for it as it rang, and rang, and rang. She finally found it and looked at the caller I.D. It was her best friend, Sarah.

"Hello?" She asked, groggily.

"Lily? Is that you? You don't sound to good." Sarah asked, perky as usual.

"Yeah, it's me. I just didn't have a good night sleep. I had this weird dream where I was reading this letter or something…"

"Having nightmares? That's not a good sign, I think your going crazy."

"Very funny, I am not going crazy. But anyways, what's up?"

"Oh, well, we haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks, I thought we could go to the movies or something." Sarah said, sounding hopeful.

"Well, I've got nothing on my calendar, so it'll be alright. What, how long, and how much?"

"You get to the point quickly, don't you? But anyways, I'll look at the movie times and call you back. Is that okay?"

"Yea, that's fine." Lily answered. "As long as it's after twelve, I just need to get ready."

"Okay, talk to you then!" Sarah said, still amazingly upbeat. How can people be so hyper so early, she wondered?

She made her way down the hall to her bedroom. She got dressed as she tried to remember the specifics about the letter. It was something about a ghost, and a kid who could play the violin and piano, and something….what was it? She shook her head as she gave up.

She started to go into the bathroom for her shower, but then remembered that there was no such appliance that worked so far. She really had to call that plumber, she thought, as she made her way to the kitchen to wash her hair in the sink.

The phone rang again around eleven-thirty, just as Lily finished with her hair. She looked at the caller ID (it was really just a force of habit, even though she already new who is was) and of course it was Sarah.

"Okay, well, I think I found a movie that you'll like." Sarah said to her.

"As long as it leaves us an hour or so to get down there, then I'm not picky."

"Don't worry, it's at one-thirty. I thought we could get a quick lunch and go."

"Yeah, that sounds great, especially since I don't have any food at my house. What's the movie?" Lily asked.

"It's a new one called Red Eye, like I said, I think you'll like it."

"Isn't that the suspense one from Wes Craven?"

"Yea, do you think you want to go?"

"I don't know, suspense/thrillers aren't really my forte." Lily said and then laughed.

"Well, like I said, you might like it, do you want to go?" Sarah asked her. Lily didn't respond. "Lily?

Hey, Lily, do you want to go?"

"Forte…" Lily said softly.

"What?"

"His forte, his forte, ERIK'S FORTE! It was violin!" Lily screamed, almost hysteric.

"What are you talking about?" Sarah asked, sounding extremely worried.

"The letter! The one I dreamed about!"

"So? What does that have to do with anything?"

"It wasn't a dream, I remember every word, Erik, The Opera Ghost, IT WAS HIS!"

"Okay Lily, I have no idea what you're talking about, so I'm gonna have to go."

"I'll call you back in thirty minutes!" Lily screamed, and slammed down the phone. She rushed into the dinning room, and looked around the table. Nothing was there. But it was real, Lily thought to herself, it ad to be real!

She looked under the table, and sure enough, there was the letter, not a dream, but reality.


	4. Erik's Deformation

Lily saw the letter, and let her stare linger. She could do nothing else. What she thought she had been freed from was now back to trap her in that man's letter. But it could not really be the Opera Ghost, she said to herself. She did not want it to be, but how interesting his life must have been.

She had to read it. She must, it was not a matter of want, but necessity. It felt as if her life depended on reading this letter. So she picked it up and sat at the table, reading:

I found out in the days after the event that the fire was started at the backers' house, as he was baking bread for the next day. My mother was extremely lucky, for she was out of the house, and needed not to fear for her life, but I on the other hand, was trapped inside my house.

I first noticed the warmth in the kitchen, where my search for food was having no luck. It seemed unusually hot for the season (fall) but still; I paid no attention to it. Unsuccessful at finding something to eat, I decided to go back to bed, which would be my last mistake.

When I awoke there was nothing but black smoke encompassing the entire room. I remember hearing the cry of my mother, but that might have been a figment of my imagination. I tried to find my way to a window or door, anything that would get me out of this room, but all I found were walls. Then, finally, I was able to find a door. I knew this door would lead me to the hallway, which would lead straight to the door to the outside world (we had a door at both ends of the hallway, so it was a sure thing that I would be able to find a door, no matter which way I would walk).

I opened my door. On the other side were red flames, and before I could shut the door, they attacked me. I use this word, attacked, because they did not simply come near me. They jumped onto me, trying to catch anything unburned. In seconds I was completely on fire. I think I had decided that I had nothing to lose (my memory was a little blurry in these sections) and ran towards the fire. I was in the hallway running as fast as I could, until I crashed into the door. I opened it and ran out.

Screams of surprise and horror arose when I ran out, and the last thing I remember is seeing

my mother, throwing water on me trying to dose the flames.

Here Lily's eyesight became blurry. She realized she was crying for this child, this poor child who had done nothing wrong. Who had only been a musician, an amazing musician, and had been burned to a crisp. She was overcome with sadness and made her way to the kitchen sink.

She washed off and heard the phone ring. (Yes, she did check the caller ID, just like every other time.) It turned out to be Sarah, and Lily was debating whether to answer the phone or not. She answered it on it's last ring.

"Hello?" She said quietly, knowing that each time she spoke would bring a sob from her throat.

"Lily?" Sarah voice came through, sounding anxious.

"Yeah?"

"Ohmigod. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just, I realized there was something I had to do, and I had to do it right then. Sorry for the

interruption."

"Well, I was just a little worried about you, you seemed so excited when you hung up, I didn't know

what to think." Sarah said.

"Oh, well, it was nothing. Sorry to scare you."

"It's fine, as long as you're still planning to go to the movies." Sarah asked, with a little doubt in her voice.

"Yea, just come on over when you're ready."

"OH!" Sarah seemed genuinely surprised that after the little outburst Lily would still want to go with her. "Well, then I'll be over in about half an hour."

"That's fine." Lily said. Then they said their goodbyes and hung up. Lily rushed back to the dining room table to make sure the letter was still there. She was getting more and more anxious about the letter without thinking about it. She looked for where she left off and found it:

I awoke, to my surprise, not in heaven, but in our little village's hospital. I recognized at once, but not by the sight, but by the smell. Within a mile of the hospital you could smell, the smell of death, of rotting corpses not yet buried. It nauseated me, and I think I threw up. The doctor noticed I was awake and called my mom, who had apparently been sitting in the same spot for three days.

The doctor told me that I had been badly burned, and that I was completely rapped in special leaves to help my skin grow back. He was not sure if it would all grow back, but we needed to try. Over the next four and a half weeks I sat there, doing nothing. After that the doctor said it was time to see what lay under my bandages.

It hurt to take them off, but the doctor said that was a good thing. They worked their way up my body, starting at my legs. They told me that so far, all my skin had completely grown back, which was an amazing thing. Then they got to my face. As soon as they took my face bandage off, they gasped. My mom ran up to see what was wrong, and screamed. I asked the doctors what was wrong and the told me that I would forever have a deformation on my face.


	5. We Are All Afraid Of The Unknown

Before we begin I'd like to clear up a few things. I was reading my reviews today and noticed that there were a few complaints (two to be exact) and I wanted to clear them up. I am not basing my story on any other story that comes before this. The fact that Erik was burned in a fire is something of my creation, I don't really care what Gaston writes, this is what I think what happened to Erik. I said that Erik was tired after two weeks, and somebody (yes you, AufdemOper) said, I thought the prince gave him three days. You forgot that Erik had been playing the piano and violin none stop for eleven days before that. So there, I've validated myself, now on with the story.

Lily continued to read:

I think (as I look back upon my letter) that my verbs were not in the best descriptive nature. I said, my mother screamed. I should tell you that my mother's scream was more than a scream, it was a horrible, piercing, sound. All of the anguish that could ever be mustered by a mortal was in that scream, and that is what broke me down. The doctors would not even look upon my face, but ordered that I must get out of their hospital.

My mother refused, unless there was something placed over my head. The doctors took a dirty pillowcase and shoved it into her hands. She did not bother to cut eyeholes, she dragged my along as fast as she could to not attract attention. I remember the fear I had when my father came home. I did not know what to expect, and what is feared most by anybody is the unexpected.

He came in and hugged my mother. He obviously noticed she had great fear within her, and asked what was wrong. She pointed at me. I still had the pillowcase over my head, but I was able to fashion eyeholes. My father looked at my mother and me quizzically. He came of and took off the pillowcase.

I cannot tell you the look in his eyes. If you've ever had a child lost to you, you would understand the look. It was past despair, it was past hatred, yet within reach of disgust. He violently shoved the pillowcase back onto my head and gave a scream.

"HE IS UGLY! OUR SON, OUR SON!" He screamed, over and over again.

"Father," I inquired, "What is wrong, can I not still be your son?" He was silent for a moment. I saw, between my eyeholes, that he thought about this question.

"Our son is dead." He said to my mother. I didn't quite understand him at my young age. I didn't know why he would say I am dead, when I was standing right in front of him. "I must go out, I will be back."

I watched him walk out that door, wondering if you would indeed come back. I looked to my mother for support, and she gave none. I walked up to her and asked her if father would be all right. Instead of consoling my like any other human being should, she shunned my. When a mother that we knew from around the village came by to ask if "poor Erik" had survived, my mother said no. I was to be kept in a closet, because a corpse was not fit for a bedroom.

That is what she demeaned me to, a corpse, nothing more. When father came back, he was drunk. I tried to stay out of his way, but he found me. He took my wrist and shook me, calling me hideous names as I cried in despair. He slapped me to shut me up, but not knowing anything else, I still cried. He picked me up and threw me. He didn't care where I landed, which was against the wall, as long as I shut up. I finally understood and stopped crying.

He seemed done for the moment, and I crawled into my closet and tried to sleep.

The doorbell rang. Lily did not notice it. She did not notice the pounding, but finally noticed when Sarah yelled her name. She wiped her face one last time as she opened the door. Sarah was about to pound again, and almost wasn't able to stop herself from hitting Lily.

"Oh, there you are, I was getting worried." Sarah said, feigning a smile.

"Sorry, I was in the back, I didn't hear you."

"So, are you ready?

"Yeah, sure, where do you want to go eat?" It turned out Sarah had made reservations at an extraordinarily posh restaurant. Sarah drove, and she did most of the talking in the car. Sarah wanted to know what was new with Lily over lunch, and then Lily was forced to talk. She couldn't wait for the movies so that Sarah had to be silent.

The whole time with Sarah was talking, Lily thought of Erik. It brought tears to her eyes a couple of times, and she had to excuse herself to go to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. What was wrong with her? She was crying over someone she had never met! This person could just be a joker, leaving a fake story. But there was so much sorrow in those words. She could feel his pain when she read them. It had to be real, but first and foremost, she had to get a grip and go through lunch with Sarah.

She cleaned herself up and went back to the table, feeling a tiny bit better.


	6. Author's Intermission

I would like to take a moment to reflect here. I know it's unusual for an author to suddenly intrude upon his (or her) story, but if Victor Hugo can do it, so can I. My character Erik is so unlike the Erik you meet in the movies and the book. I would love to portray his childhood a little more, but maybe that should be saved for another story. I like Erik's childhood so much because we can see him without the evil, or greed, or anything else he will acquire in future chapters.

My character Lily is an interesting one. There is something in her you know she knows, but we can't find out because she won't tell us. I think she is a tortured soul, akin to the kind Erik is. The fact that I choose to show Erik getting beat (and that WILL continue on in future chapters) is so that everybody will understand where he's coming from. You briefly saw in the movie him getting tortured, but it doesn't show much. In the book it doesn't even attempt anything of the sort.

That is why I like my story, I'm not on any time schedule, nor do I only have so much money to deal with. I can put whatever I like into this story, INCLUDING this reflection. Erik will be the most mysterious literature character you will ever read about. His dark past contributes to his dark present, and I hope to fulfill my duties as an author to make his stories deeper. I will take his body, the one left by Gaston what's-his-name and Alexander Lloyd Webber and mold it into something I see fit to publish.

Enough with my ramblings and on with the story.


	7. Why Do We Dream?

Lily had survived the movies, which surprised her. She was able to feign interest, but her brain was not on the movie. How could it be? She had just read of a beating, and the writer sounded like he could care less (or at least that's what she imagined). As the movie was done Sarah asked her a bunch of meaningless questions about how she liked the movie and whatnot, and she seemed to have passed that test.

After they had said their goodbyes and promises of calling each other, Lily ran to her apartment. She had to know, she had to. If she were to be killed this instant, she would only regret not reading the rest of this man's story, which seemed a little odd and depressing. She threw her stuff down onto a couch and went to the bedroom with the story. She held her breath and waited. After all of this anticipation, she was now not sure if she wanted to read on, but she shook her head at this thought and plunged into the depressing narrative:

My life was unbearable, but nonetheless, I had nowhere to go, so I stayed. They eventually allowed me to pick up music again, but only if I was to play in the depths of the night, and in our basement. I grew accustomed to staying awake all night and playing, sometimes I would also try to find something to eat, but for the second time in my life, music became my sole substance on which I survived.

This also became the starting point for my first opera, but still I had no name for it. I felt it was to be the greatest achievement when I was done with it, little did I know what would happen when I did finish it. But I am again jumping ahead to another part, let us stay here.

The opera became my outlet for all my sorrows. Though I was untrained in writing opera, I had seen a few, and felt that I knew the ropes well enough to start. During this time, my father stopped beating me. In fact, I think he stopped coming home before dark, but I'm not sure since I was nocturnal. I was living a life of a shadow, of a shade, not really existing, except in music. I felt bound to the music I wrote; I felt that my soul went down on those pages, and nothing else.

One-day (or should I say night?) my mother came down to the cellar. I was about to look at her when she stopped me. She put a bag over my head (I had stopped wearing the pillow case awhile back) and told me she wanted to hear me play my violin. I stared at her threw my eyeholes. I wasn't sure why she would ask this of me. She motioned for me to play, and I turned to the music.

I lifted the violin slowly, and I felt silly for being scared. I had never felt so scared, but at the same time, I was…I think I was ready for this. I needed to show my mother what was still in me, that there was still a person inside of this body, which needed to be loved and cared for all the same…At least that's what I thought subconsciously. I started, and suddenly nothing clogged my mind. I played and played, remembering every note to the song. I do not know how long I was playing for, but after awhile, I heard a sob. I stopped and turned around, and there was my mother, crying like I'd never seen her before. I asked what was wrong and she realized that I had noticed. She quickly wiped her tears and simply said, "It's beautiful."

I went to hug her; I suddenly felt like she no longer cared about this hideous scar, that I was her son again. This came to me the moment she uttered those words, this feeling of being reunited. But I was wrong. Instead of embracing me like I would have thought, she screamed at me.

"Did I startle you?" I asked, quite perplexed.

"Just stay away from me!" She screamed again, and ran back upstairs. I did nothing after she left. I did not move, nor sleep, nor even breathe. I must have stood there for a few minutes before I fell to the floor. It was cold and damp, but I didn't notice.

I was crushed, my music was my one source of output that I had in my life. That is what I based it on. To hear such phrases in conjuncture with my music was astounding, but my music meant nothing to my mother. My only source of beauty still scared her beyond words. I was still nothing more than a piece of trash, like a mouse to her. Something she would see and just throw out of the house.

I stayed there, on the floor, that night. I did not move, but simply stayed. The thoughts that went through my head were little. In fact, I only thought of the conversation. I only thought of my mother. Sleep was not in my plans, and in all truthfulness, I had absolutely no plans. I must've drifted off with these thoughts in my head, to another dreamless night. I had noticed my dreams had stopped coming to me after the fire. I had started to sleep in total darkness. I didn't know why, or at least that's what I admitted to myself. Inside I knew the reason. It was obvious. I did not dream because there was nothing to dream about. My imagination had died with the fire, as had all my goals. Dreaming is to simply drift to a fantasyland, one where everything went right. But I knew better. I had no fantasyland, because nothing would ever go right. Nothing.


End file.
